"I need to experience other men to know if you're the one. Otherwise, the wedding is off," my fiancée demanded.
I said, "Okay."
The next day, I canceled the venue, returned the ring, and moved out while she was experiencing. She called panicking. I said, "Wedding's off. Enjoy," and hung up.
The final invoice for the caterer was sitting on the kitchen counter, a stark reminder that in 73 days I was supposed to be a married man. I wasn't nervous. I was settled, in a good way—the kind of calm that comes from knowing you've built something solid. I'd spent the evening cross-referencing honeymoon hiking trails in Iceland, my laptop warming my knees, while Sarah flipped through a bridal magazine on the other end of the sofa.
The silence between us was the comfortable kind, or so I'd thought. But when I glanced up, I saw the tension. It was in the way her thumb tapped a frantic rhythm against the glossy page and the tight set of her jaw. She wasn't reading; she was rehearsing.
"You're quiet tonight," I said, closing my laptop.
She flinched, as if I'd caught her at something. "Just tired."
"Wedding stuff is a lot. We're through the worst of it. It's just the fun details now." I offered a smile. "Unless you're having second thoughts about the chocolate fountain."
She didn't smile back. She closed the magazine with a sharp slap. "Actually, Jake, we need to talk."
"About the wedding? About us?" A cold trickle, like the first drop of ice water, slid down my spine. "Okay. Talk. Is it the budget? Because we can scale back the—"
"It's not the money," she interrupted, her voice unnaturally steady. She turned to face me, tucking her legs beneath her. Her expression was a strange mix of resolve and pity that made my stomach clench. "It's foundational."